rupture and repair
by ThinCeilings
Summary: Angela is a therapist. Fareeha is a firefighter, and her most difficult client.
1. Chapter 1: RUPTURE

After challenging sessions, some therapists ate powdered donuts or smoked American Spirits. **  
**

Angela sorted emails.

Absently massaging her shoulder blade, Angela organized her messages into the usual junk and not-junk piles, blue eyes glazing over. Junk… junk… junk… wedding invite?

Begrudgingly, she clicked.

Mendelssohn's "Wedding March" trumpeted through her headphones. Lena Oxton and Emily Murphy were cordially inviting her, the esteemed Dr. Ziegler, to their ceremony and ensuing reception, formal attire optional.

Angela drummed her fingers. Well. She was happy for Lena.

Accepting the invite, she returned to her inbox. A name caught her attention. From: Fareeha Amari. She clicked.

 _Dr. Ziegler,_

 _It's Fareeha, Ana's daughter. Been awhile, hasn't it? My mother swears I am depressed and says you can cure anything. I would like to schedule a single consultation._

 _Cheers,  
Fareeha_

Fareeha. She remembered her. God, how many years had passed? Fifteen? Twenty? Memories, unbidden, rose to the surface. Twanging strings; a humming amp; nimble fingers, spidering across a fretboard; a nervous grin. I wrote that for you, Angela!

After some consideration Angela responded to the email—blew out the candles—and returned to her apartment alone.

* * *

The following week, there was a brisk knock at the door.

"Come in," said Angela.

The door opened and a woman entered, gold cuffs shimmering in her hair. Fareeha.

She had gotten tall; _muscular_ , too. Fluid and noble facial features evoked royalty from a bygone age, and a tattoo under her eye—that was new—curved toward her ear. An udjat, just like Ana's.

Attraction stirred within Angela, rusted from years of wilful negligence. She pressed it down—down—and extended a hand. "Fareeha! How have you been?"

"Fine." Her grip was firm, the handshake brief. "And yourself?"

"Fine as well, thanks."

As they settled into the chairs around the fireplace, Angela propped her Moleskine journal onto her knee. "So. What brings you to—"

"Is that lavender?"

"Sorry?"

Fareeha indicated the candles on the windowsill.

"Good nose," smiled Angela. She was proud of how she had decorated her office—the candles, the veneers, the books. After a patient complained of shadows, she'd even brightened the dusky concavities of the room with potted plants. "If the smell bothers you, I can blow them out."

"It's not the smell," Fareeha said flatly, "it's the fire hazard. You shouldn't have open flames near curtains or books." She pointed. "Or plants."

Angela hitched an eyebrow. "I'm not sure bamboo is flammable."

"It is."

"Oh." She tapped her pen. "I suppose I'll blow out the candles, then."

"Don't bother." A smile twitched at Fareeha's mouth. "I like lavender."

Angela wasn't sure how to feel. Irritated? Amused? Perhaps she ought to be straightforward. "Why are you here, Fareeha?"

A callous shrug. "You know my mother. She thinks I'm depressed."

"Do you think you're depressed?"

"Do I look depressed?"

"I don't know." She studied her. "What does depression look like to you?"

"Not sleeping, eating. Minimal showering."

"Do you relate to those things?"

"Not really. My job doesn't allow it."

"And what is your job?"

"I'm a firefighter," said Fareeha. That explained the lecture on fire safety—and the musculature. "I eat, sleep, and shower on a schedule. Hell, I have regulated piss breaks."

Angela chuckled, and a smile fluttered at Fareeha's lip. Her childhood precociousness had evolved into a roguish sort of charm; it was disarming.

Angela cleared her throat. "How do you feel about your job?"

"Fine? It's not something you do for the money. I just like helping people."

Angela looked at her carefully. Some hidden emotion seemed to scrape the edges of her expression, raw and painful, straining to breathe. "But you're here for a reason."

"Yes, my mother. She worries."

"Why does she worry?"

"I don't know."

"Is it because of your actions?"

"No."

"Your feelings? Your words?"

"No. I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"I say things, sometimes. To her."

"And what do you say?"

"How I feel."

"Which is?"

"Nothing," said Fareeha, looking straight through Angela. "I save lives, and I don't feel a damn thing."

* * *

Their second session got off to a promising start. Fareeha spoke at length about her rigorous but happy childhood—game-winning goals, the heat of Cairo, learning the guitar.

Yet when Angela inquired about anything deeper than the perfunctory facts of her upbringing, Fareeha crossed her arms and refused to speak. Breaking her self-imposed omertà proved impossible, and the session ended on a stale note.

Their third session went the same way. So did their fourth. And fifth.

Angela deployed every strategy in her arsenal. She asked Fareeha to draw how she was feeling, to write poetry, to describe her mother. Nothing worked. Late at night she lay awake, mulling over their circuitous conversations, trying to will a solution into being.

"Tequila on the rocks?"

"Yes, Gabe, thank you."

The bartender nodded and turned, tossing ice into a glass. Angela sighed. She sat at the far end of the counter, where the stools met the exposed brick of the wall.

"Tough client?" asked Gabe, handing her the tequila. She knocked it back. "Well, shit. Sorry for asking."

"Could I get—"

"Another? You bet."

As Gabe turned to make her drink, the bell above the door jangled. A group of men tramped inside, chattering idly yet loudly amongst themselves.

Angela looked down. She heard boots shuffling, chairs being rearranged. She sipped her drink. One more shot, then. One more and she would leave. From the corner of her eye, she noticed someone leave the group of men and approach her.

Poor bastard. She closed her eyes and drank.

"Mind if I join you?"

Angela opened her eyes, fully prepared to refute some clueless man, and choked on her drink. The reigning champion of People She Did Not Want to See Unless Absolutely Necessary stood before her, wearing a leather jacket and a grin— _Fareeha Amari_.

"Fareeha," she sputtered. Damn her. "What are you doing here?"

"Drinking after work." She jerked her thumb at the men. "I'm legal now, you know."

"Well—yes, of course…"

"Can I join you?"

"Fareeha…"

"Ah, come on. For old times' sake?"

Angela hesitated. Establishing boundaries with patients was critical to the success of therapy; any armchair psychologist knew that.

But… what if this was an opportunity?

She considered the empty shot glasses. A month of sessions had been fruitless; every tactic in her toolbox was exhausted. Perhaps… perhaps a little rapport could go a long way.

She nodded. "Go ahead."

Beaming, Fareeha sat next to her. She smelled like cologne. "I'll have what she's having," she directed to Gabe, who shrugged and poured her a shot. She sniffed it. "Tequila?"

"You're a bloodhound."

"And you're a heavyweight, apparently." Fareeha raised her glass. "To my mother, for reuniting us."

Angela smiled. "To your mother."

They clinked glasses and drank. Fareeha's nose wrinkled. "Ugh. How do you stand this jet fuel?"

"It's an acquired taste," she admitted with a small smile. She glanced at the men. "You're with your coworkers?"

"Coworkers—what a cold word. We're more like a family."

"Of course."

"Who'd you come with?"

"Don't you know?" Gabe cut in, swinging by with two more shots. "Angela sits on her stool and gets hit on by attractive strangers. It's an eclectic kink."

Fareeha snorted; Angela leveled a dry look at the bartender. "Thanks, Gabe."

"You're welcome, doc."

"So it's true?" Fareeha's eyes glinted.

"Of course not." She sipped her drink. "Why, do you want it to be?"

Fareeha raised an eyebrow; Angela flushed. The words had slipped out her mouth, a vestigial habit from when she used to flirt at bars. The tequila didn't help. "That is—I meant—"

"I know what you meant." Head tilted, Fareeha fingered the rim of her glass. "You think I'm attractive, don't you?"

Oh God oh God. "No, I just—"

"You think I'm ugly?"

"No! I—"

"So which is it, Angela? Am I attractive or ugly?"

Angela stared. Fareeha was grinning from ear to ear. "You're screwing with me."

"Oh, absolutely."

Angela downed the rest of her drink. Laughing, Fareeha knocked her shot back too, exposing the soft skin of her throat. She really was attractive. She was stupidly, unfairly attractive.

Fareeha set down her empty glass. Color tinged her cheeks; her eyes shone.

"Another drink can't hurt, can it, Ms. Heavyweight?"

* * *

In the dead of night Angela awoke. Tangled between her legs was a sweat-caked blanket. Her underwear was hitched around her ankles.

She sat up. The room was dark and quiet. The door yawned ajar. A half-rectangle of light spilled over the floor, illuminating hardwood panels.

Her eyes stung. She removed her contacts and placed them in the case on her nightstand.

She smelled smoke.

Angela swung her legs over the mattress and stood, swaying on the spot. Her head was light. She slid her feet into a pair of silk slippers and fumbled through the dark, following the smell to the balcony.

The sliding glass doors were open.

Angela stepped onto the moon-soaked tile and blinked once. Twice.

Fareeha leaned over the railing. She smoked a cigarette. She was naked.

 _I'm dreaming_ , she thought. Then she thought, _Has she been crying?_

Fareeha tapped ash over the railing and said, "This is illegal, right?"

Angela stared.

"Come on. This must violate all kinds of policy."

Angela stared.

"Please say something." Ash flaked off the cigarette. "I'm not used to silence after sex."

"Sex?"

"Sex."

Angela said, "Fuck."

"That too."

" _Fuck_ ," said Angela. She slumped against railing and closed her eyes. It was all coming back now. Drinking at the pub, confused flirting, suggestive touches; the Uber home—Fareeha's eyes—sex. Good sex. Memories returned in shaky snatches—bending, clinging, panting, eyes rolling back—and her face grew hot.

Fareeha touched her shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"No." The cigarette. She stared at the cigarette. "Smoking is bad for your health."

Fareeha stopped touching her and took a drag. Smoke came out of her nose and washed over the balcony, curling toward the stars. "I know."

"Have you been crying?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"Have you lost someone before?"

She paused. "Yes."

"He was the captain before me. I could have saved him." The tip of her cigarette glowed. "Why didn't I save him, Angela?"

Angela did not reply. She did not know how to reply. For a long time, the two of them stood there on that balcony and looked at the lights in the cars and the buildings and the lamps lining the dark streets below.


	2. Chapter 2: REPAIR

Two weeks later Angela sat in her office, organizing her emails into the usual 'junk' and 'not junk' piles.

Her inbox pinged with a new email. _From: Fareeha Amari. Re: Ending our sessions._

In all her years of practicing therapy, Angela had never—never—given up on a patient. She believed strongly that every problem was solvable, every emotional hurdle surmountable. If a genuine desire for growth existed, so did hope.

The message from Fareeha was long and heartfelt. She deleted it.

She did not deserve a word.

Angela closed her MacBook and opened her desk drawer. She pulled out a set of shot glasses, a handle of Goldschläger, and a faded photograph. It was a black and white snapshot of herself and another woman, their bodies tangled together, lips almost touching. In black ink, across the bottom: _La lumière de mon coeur._ _11/21._

Angela unscrewed the handle, poured the liquor, and raised her glass in a silent toast.

As she downed the shot—and another—and another, the calendar on her MacBook blinked the date _. 11/21._

* * *

The fire spread quickly.

It started with the candles. A spark of flame leapt onto the curtains and they went up in twin columns of fire. Burning debris spilled onto the plants. They ignited and the fire hit the carpet and gobbled the thread and groaned a loud groan from everything it was consuming. Thick, roiling plumes of smoke—the miasma of death—rose to the ceiling, choking the life out of the air.

Angela dozed at her desk. An bottle of schnapps bumped against her foot; a photograph dangled loosely from her hand.

* * *

She was on the deck of a ship. She was reclining on a lounge chair and reading a book.

Someone, somewhere, was grilling hot dogs.

The sun was hot...

All at once the ship reeled and flipped over and Angela awoke with a spasm. The floor lurched beneath her. Heat pressed down from all sides. Pain flared inside her lungs, causing her to sputter and cough so intensely that tears streamed down her cheeks.

She was being carried, she realized, groggily.

She lay across someone's shoulders, someone who wore a mask and a helmet and had reflective strips on their jacket. A firefighter. Other bodies milled vaguely around them, faceless shapes in the smoke-choked darkness.

Her head swam. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

* * *

The pressure woke her.

Wheezing and hacking, Angela's eyes flew open. Her sternum ached. Her everything ached.

Someone leaned over her, gloved hands pressed against her chest, mid-motion. The firefighter.

"Thank god," they said, voice muffled by the mask. They placed a hand on her back, helped her sit up. "Can you tell me your name?"

Angela opened her mouth, only to be seized by a violent fit of coughing. Her body shook with the force of it. When the fit subsided, she rasped, "Angela."

"Angela, can you tell me what happened?"

"Fire," she said hoarsely.

"Good. Angela, are there other people in the building?"

"I don't—I don't know…"

"You don't know?"

Angela closed her eyes. Thinking was difficult. "No. I'm the only one who…" She trailed off. Speaking was difficult, too. Her tongue felt leaden.

"The only one who what?"

"Works that late." She looked around blearily. She was sitting on the sidewalk, surrounded by flashing lights and rushing people and guttering vehicles. "There's no one else inside..."

The firefighter's shoulders sagged. Their relief was palpable. "Angela," they said. Their voice had hardened. "You almost died. Are you aware of that?"

"I… yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Well—I mean—"

"I warned you about those candles,"—anger mounted in their voice—"I warned you—"

"I—"

"What the hell were you thinking? Drinking on your own? Falling asleep?"

"Who—"

"You could have died!"

Angela stared. "Fareeha?"

The firefighter tore off the mask. The udjat under her eye glistened through a sheen of sweat. "You endangered your life," Fareeha said furiously, "the lives of innocent people—"

"I was the only one in the—"

"I don't care! You almost died!"

She closed her eyes. Everything was fucked. Everything was completely and utterly fucked. "Maybe I wanted to."

"What?"

"Maybe I wanted to," she repeated. The words spilled out, slurring together. "Why do you think I drink alone? Go to bars alone? Eat alone, sleep alone—do every goddamn thing alone—"

"Angela—"

"Hazard a guess!"

Fareeha stared. "I don't..."

"I have nothing, Fareeha." She lowered her chin. "I have no one."

Silence. Her temples throbbed. She was drunk. She was drunk and she had said those things and she had meant them.

More silence. Then—warmth.

Angela opened her eyes. Fareeha touched her hand, gazing into her eyes, her expression ineffable. They shared a breath, a heartbeat.

Then—

A crowd of paramedics swarmed Angela, breaking them apart. She was led toward a stretcher, a blanket thrown round her shoulders.

They locked eyes again, through the crowd, and were separated.

* * *

Angela picked her way through the rubble.

Three weeks ago, her greatest concern had been a difficult client. Now her entire practice was gone, burned to ash.

She touched the crumbling mantle of the fireplace. The windows were blown out, her books scorched to ash. Solemn wonder settled in her stomach. All those hours spent redecorating, all that money wasted…

A profound sense of loss engulfed her. The pain was bone-deep and unyielding. She stood there, waiting for the moment to pass. Sometimes that was all you could do.

"I thought you might be here."

She turned. Fareeha leaned against the door frame, wearing her leather jacket.

"Fareeha," she said. "You shouldn't be here. We shouldn't..."

Fareeha stepped inside. Something crunched under her boot: a shard of clay, a pile of soot. "How are your lungs?"

"Fareeha..."

"How are they?"

She paused. "They're fine."

"A different office could be nice. Perhaps this was a good thing."

"Perhaps." Another pause. "I never got to thank you, did I?"

"That doesn't matter."

"Of course it does." She touched her desk, blackened beyond recognition. "Thank you, Fareeha. You saved my life."

Fareeha averted her gaze. "You're welcome."

"Do you still feel nothing?"

"Do you?"

Their eyes met.

"I don't know," Angela admitted. "I haven't… processed."

"Me neither."

They gazed at the scorched remains of her office. Then Fareeha said, quietly: "What happened in there?"

"You know what happened." Angela picked her fingers off her desk, examined them. They were covered in dirt, soot. "I got drunk. I fell asleep. The curtains caught fire."

"No." Fareeha stepped forward. She held something in her hand—the photograph. "What _really_ happened?"

Angela looked at the photo, then at Fareeha. Emotion rose within her, deep and profound. _Stop._ And just like that, the tears stopped, lodged somewhere between her heart and throat.

Fareeha wordlessly handed her the photograph, and did not press the issue. "So," she said, clearing her throat. "How about that sex, huh?"

"Sorry?"

"Oh God. Nothing. Nevermind."

Angela chuckled. Fareeha appeared disgruntled. "Wow, you know, thanks for taking this seriously—"

"I enjoyed it, Fareeha."

"You—you did?" She sounded hopeful. "And was it—was it just sex for you?"

She exhaled. "I'm not sure what it was, exactly. But sex was only a part of it. I think."

"You think?"

Angela smiled, wryly. "Was it just sex for you?"

"No."

Neither of them seemed sure of what to do next.

Finally Fareeha said, "Well—you know. Since we're not professionally involved anymore… would you like to join me for coffee?"

"I would."

Fareeha beamed.

As they exited the office, she turned to face Angela. "And you're wrong, you know.

"Oh?

"You don't have no one, at least not anymore." Fareeha was smiling. "You have me."


End file.
